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  • Writer's picturecatherine@allaboutwriters

Just can't put my finger on it...

It’s the shimmering, sparking water at the north end of the beach, where the aquamarine water is calm, lapping gently at the beach in gentle sighs, so clear you can see the sandy ocean floor and catch a glimpse of the schools of fish darting back and forth.

It’s the perfect little rollers further towards the middle of the beach, the ones that pick you up on your board and roll you into the shore with a frothy smile. Those waves that you can’t help but catch, even without a board.

It’s the breakers at the south end, where the lake meets the ocean. A place to play the game of over or under, knowing that if you lose you’ll be rolling like you’re in the barrel of a washing machine. Those waves that you dive into at just the right time, feeling the force massage down your back to your feet and then, if you time it just right, leave you standing once again.

It’s the sand. As white as the puffy clouds crossing the sky, so fine it’s almost powder. It's meandering along the beach, following each others footsteps, cartwheeling and searching for treasures.

It’s the sun filtering through the tops of the impossibly tall trees, reflecting off the grey and white spotted trunks. The gentlest breeze swaying through the tippy tops, the whistles and calls of birds near and distant filling the air, set against the sound of the crashing waves.

It’s the bush that borders the beach, framing the dunes and the sparkling water in a world a million miles from people and the built environment. Kangaroos are almost invisible in their ongoing effort to chew the tastiest grass on the edge of the trees, where the forest meets the beach.

It’s the perfectly still water of the lake, only moved by a fisherman’s line hitting the water or a pelican sliding along the glassy top to the sandbar. A stingray sits at the bottom, gently rolling sides the only clue to its hiding place.

It’s the afternoon nap in the early winter sun, dozing off with book in hand, rousing again with no concern for the time or plans, no idea of the date or even the day. It’s the quiet of being away from all the things that make so much noise you can’t think.

It’s the smoke gently billowing into the darkening sky from a newly lit fire. The smell of the eucalyptus wraps around like a blanket, so comforting and familiar. The flickering flames licking at the wood, popping and settling to its fate.

It’s looking up into the impossibly starry sky, starting from the Southern Cross and following the glittery path of the Milky Way. Seeking that elusive shooting star, talking about nothing in particular, but enjoying such quality time.

It’s being here together. It’s playing scopa and reading and foraging for bush tomatoes and shells. It’s cricket on the beach. It’s rising early for a solo walk along the beach, then falling exhausted into bed at the same time as the kids.

It’s time.

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